


Woe to those who follow in the footsteps of the dead, for their doom is at hand.

by fauchevalent



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Bruises, If there's anything else triggering just leave me a comment so I can tag it too, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 01:04:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4120699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fauchevalent/pseuds/fauchevalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I don't own any of this, Season two is a beautiful entity, and Lola Perry has had too much sadness to deal with in these four episodes. Spoilers for and preceding episode four, "War & Pieces".</p>
    </blockquote>





	Woe to those who follow in the footsteps of the dead, for their doom is at hand.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own any of this, Season two is a beautiful entity, and Lola Perry has had too much sadness to deal with in these four episodes. Spoilers for and preceding episode four, "War & Pieces".

——  _ **WOE TO THOSE WHO FOLLOW IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE DEAD, FOR THEIR DOOM IS AT HAND."**_

you can still trace the words with quivering fingers, raised v's and i's topped with sharp angles. you can see carmilla's face in the back of your head, worry etched across that you know is your fault. if you'd only done something different, made sure everything was secure another time, if you hadn't been   
                                                                        so  **F U C K I N G  S T U P I D .**

you locked the doors. ( check )  
you barricaded the windows. ( check )  
you clicked the deadbolt into place. ( check )  
you unlocked the doors. you relocked the doors, second time, just to make sure. ( check )  
you rebarricaded the windows, second time, just to make sure. ( check )  
you unhinged the deadbolt, heard it clack back into place, second time, just to make sure. ( check )  
you unlocked the doors. you relocked the doors, third time, just to make sure. ( check )  
you rebarricaded the windows, third time, just to make sure. ( check )  
you unhinged the deadbolt, heard it clack back into place, third time, just to make sure. ( check )

you slept ( a rare pleasure ) with your legs wound tightly around each other, short and trembling breaths accompanying you to dreamland. you know lafontaine slept in the bed beside you ( they dragged it over, made sure to keep a close eye after the newspaper incident. you assured them you were okay. you  _are_ okay. you don't want to worry anyone. ) because you checked each time you got up to relock the doors, just to make sure. 

                                     you recall waking up, lafontaine still sound asleep, an arm tossed carefully over you in a gesture of protectiveness, and immediately thinking about how much your knees hurt. you'd bruised them in the fall ~~in blood~~ at the newspaper and ever since, you'd scrubbed at them during every shower, like they'd go away. or maybe they wouldn't, but at least they'd be clean. so you'd checked your knees and, finding the results thoroughly unimpressive, decided to take a shower and try to scrub off the bruises for the fifteenth time since you'd gotten them. you'd carefully lifted lafontaine's arm, crawled out from beneath the covers, and flipped on the fluorescent glow of the bathroom.

                                      you recall taking your pants off first, folding them neatly and placing them atop the toilet. ( check )  
                                      you unfold them, refold them, second time, just to make sure. ( check )   
                                      you unfold them, refold them, third time, just to make sure. ( check )  
                                      you'd slipped off your top, folding it neatly and placing it atop the toilet. ( check )  
                                      you unfold it, refold it, second time, just to make sure. ( check )  
                                      you unfold it, refold it, third time, just to make sure. ( check )  
suddenly, you're peering down at what  _has to be_ some senior prank, sharpie or something written across your abdomen.  
you scrub hard. no results.  
fine.  
fine.  
you take up a bar of soap, scrub harder. no results.   
some pain.  
your healing knuckles tear open again.  
you take it in stride.  
you take up the bar of soap again, scrub harder, second time, just to make sure. ( check? )  
you take up the bar of soap again, scrub harder, third time, just to make sure. ( check? )  
no results. ( check )  
that's false. some results.  
red liquid is dribbling down your legs.  
you  _won't_ let it get on the floor.  
you kneel to catch the bits that have already hit the floor with a quick swipe of a towel. you find more red hitting the floor at an alarming rate.  
you can't keep up.  
you fall to the floor, tears prickling your eyes.  
the fall bends you at the abdomen, causing you to remember your scrubbing, however, when you peer back down at the words, they are angrier and redder than ever.  
and they are dripping.  
 _oh._  
you feel cold and you feel the faint sensation of a quiver pass through your body.   
so you are bleeding. you have bled before, you convince yourself, it's not a big deal.   
you peer down at the words again.  
vae illis qui sectantur vestigia quae est ex mortuis, ut sit in manu îîsdem victoribus.  
that feels latin.  
and threatening.  
you pull your pants down to the floor with you, swiping them on and grabbing a towel from the cabinet beside you.

                                      you lie there, in a sports bra and your pajama pants, with a towel draped over a bunch of bleeding latin words, for a good fifteen minutes. when you peel the towel back, you notice they've stopped bleeding, so you slip your shirt back on.  
you feel your eyes prickling with tears again, and they fall without permission. you reach up to swipe them off your cheek and find that you are sobbing quietly.  
you locked the door, you deadbolted the door, you had the windows barricaded - what did you do  _wrong_? your breath hitches and suddenly you're taking in rasping, quickening breaths, sobbing silently. images flash through your brain - laura, disappointed. carmilla - grinning widely. lafontaine - eyes narrowed, wondering why you couldn't keep yourself safe. you couldn't, you think, the image staying put as another sob thickens in your throat, this is all your fault, and they picked the right girl to do this to, because you can't even fucking figure out what to do, of course you have to run for help, what else would such a  _stupid, stupid_ girl do? but as soon as your sobs turn dry and your breaths slow enough to speak a little, you dry your cheeks and stand up.  
you tug up your pajama pants so the words look like less of a burden on you. ( check )  
you tug them up a little higher, second time, just to make sure. ( check )  
you tug them up a little higher, third time, just to make sure. ( check )

laura's door is open and you feel like an intruder the way she and carmilla are wrapped around each other. you hug your shirt tightly to your body.  
                                                   why did you come in here?  
                                                   why didn't you just let everyone else be happy?  
                                                   just let the wounds heal, you tell yourself.

carmilla and laura wear matching expressions of worry. you feel like an idiot.

                                                                                                                       "vae illis qui sectantur vestigia quae est ex mortuis, ut sit in manu îîsdem victoribus." carmilla reads off quietly, once she's defined it in english ( woe to those who follow in the footsteps of the dead, for their doom is at hand ), and you pull your shirt back around your body. 

                                                                                                                                                                                    

                                                                                                                                                      you choke out a dry and silent sob.


End file.
